


Luck/Time

by Clarice Chiara Sorcha (claricechiarasorcha)



Series: Cat & Bird [2]
Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Buddy (un)Comedy, Canon Rewrite, Hux is Not Nice, Lovers to enemies to lovers, M/M, Movie: Star Wars: The Force Awakens, Poe Makes Poor Life Choices, Unlikely Partnerships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-25
Updated: 2018-01-25
Packaged: 2019-03-09 07:08:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13476306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claricechiarasorcha/pseuds/Clarice%20Chiara%20Sorcha
Summary: Poe's almost completed the most important mission of his career....it's about to end in some of the worst decisions of his entire life.





	Luck/Time

**Author's Note:**

> ...so, I managed to get here after all! My work life has just turned into an absolute disaster and my anxiety is through the roof, but writing this has helped keep me somewhat sane. I'm hoping it continues to, though at this stage I can't guarantee what the wait between chapters will be. Frankly, I'll just be happy to have readers at all!  <3
> 
> Thank you so much for dropping by, and I hope you enjoy my continuing descent into gingerpilot hell. xx

With ears still ringing from the battle – _massacre_ – of the village, Poe can’t really make out much of what is being shouted around him. It doesn’t matter. His eyes burn yet with what he’d seen but moments ago: his own blaster bolt, held still and furious in mid-air. And then there had been the man himself before him, masked and massive, demanding what he surely knows Poe would never give. Because Poe knows the rumours of who he truly is. Their confirmation lurks always in General Organa’s sad eyes, even when she says nothing of it all.

They’re dragging him to the ship now, though they don’t stop his last glance back. There’s little point to it anyway, given he knows BB-8 will be out of sight. At least, he _hopes_ BB-8 will be out of sight – the little droid is carrying a lot of weight in that spheroid form. The irony of it should make him chuckle; he’s heard the tale of Princess Leia entrusting both droid and message to an escape pod since before he can remember. But there had been an escape pod, then. BB-8 doesn’t have much more than sand and stubbornness.

Poe can’t quite contain a shiver as he’s half-marched, half-dragged up the ramp and into the waiting troop carrier. Even with the dust and detritus of combat swirling all around, it’s clearly well-maintained – and certainly far better equipment than he’d have expected of a military junta camped out in the Unknown Regions. But Organa has said more than once that they likely have more money than anyone outside the organisation truly realises. Poe grimaces as recalls the graceful sweep of Kylo Ren’s shuttle, casual in its predatory arc as it came to rest upon the sand. He’s never seen another ship quite like it. It’s almost enough to have him wishing he were aboard that one instead, even in the company of its apparent master.

Forced into awkward formation with the ‘troopers, Poe struggles not to breathe deep of the stench of blood and battle, burned air pinching at his lungs. When he swallows hard, the gauntlet of his gaoler pinches tight around his upper arm. A moment later his hand begins to tingle, as it the blood supply’s been cut off – though in reality, he’s probably lucky to feel anything at all. His entire body remains flush with adrenaline, mind coming back to memory over and over again. Of how he’d been motionless and helpless. Of how his entire life had come to a terrifying halt, restarted only when one of the ‘troopers sucker punched him in the stomach.

The rattle of take-off has him clenching his teeth; it ends up helping somewhat with the stomach churning acceleration of escape velocity. He’s always loved that rush; this gives him only dread. There are no windows, just the silence of the double lines of ‘troopers. His mouth curls around some half-formed witticism, bitten back before it gets out. Even he knows better, upon occasion.

With no words and no visual cues, Poe has no idea what they move towards. He can only assume it’s one of the rumoured star destroyers of the First Order. It’s likely the _Finalizer_ , given it’s said to be the flagship of their fleet. There’s something else in that he doesn’t want to consider, and so he doesn’t. Settling instead for wondering what it will be like, he tells himself it’s probably some jury-rigged Imperial wreck. Maybe even one pulled from the sands at Jakku years beforehand. With the treaties and trade embargoes, there’s no way they could have built something from the ground up.

He tries not to stare at the shiny walls of the troop carrier. He also tries not to notice how new they look, how purpose-built. It’s just his imagination. A bit of ill-placed fear, understandable given the circumstances.

The ramp hisses down, and he’s pushed and pulled out before he can really consider the situation. Trying to keep up his usual smart-ass routine fails as he’s given over to another trooper. He instead almost trips over his own two feet as he looks around, blood freezing with sudden dismay. This is no repurposed Imperial ruin. It is brilliant and perfect and _new_ – and there’s something building in his throat, hard and harsh, even though his opened mouth produces no sound.

He’s yanked around, and he’s stumbling over the sharp twinge in his ankle. There’s no need to concern himself much with it; he’s fairly certain things will get much worse before anything changes for the better. If it even does at all. The sheer number of personnel around him just here – from the ‘troopers in their plasteel armour, naval officers in black, engineers and technicians without number – tells him all too well that the odds of him escaping even this one ‘trooper’s custody are low. The likelihood of Poe then hijacking a ship and navigating his way through the enormous hangar is even lower. The queasy feeling low in his gut reminds him that he has doesn’t even have any idea how large the destroyer itself actually is.

It’s both too long and too quick a walk before his escort shoves him into a feeder corridor. Narrow and thin, he must walk in front with both ‘trooper and blaster at his back; Poe barely has a second to consider where the elevator at its end might go when a voice snaps out behind them both with whipcrack precision.

“Thank you, ‘trooper. I’ll take him to Commander Ren from here.”

The ‘trooper actually pauses. “…sir?”

The voice had already been chill. Now, it is outright gelid. “You have your orders.”

“Sir.” This time, the title’s spoken with clear certainty. There’s something of a shuffle behind them, one exchanging for the other; Poe supposes he should make some attempt at bolting for it, despite how impossible circumstances are. But then there’s a gloved hand in the small of his back, shoving him forward; it’s leather rather than plasteel, and either way more comfortable than the barrel head of a blaster.

They stop only once they reach the closed lift doors. Poe turns without being asked. He already knows what he’ll see. It’s not like he’d forgotten the voice, even before he’d started hearing it spouting off endless soundbites from the Order manifesto.

And he smiles, not knowing if it’s mocking or genuine. “Red.”

“Shut _up_.” And the general is but a moment from him, fists balled and hard, lips curved so far down they pull the entire shape of his face out of alignment. “How could you let this happen?”

Poe just blinks. “I didn’t ask for this,” he offers – and then, because he’s never been able to help himself. “It’s not _my_ fault you trained your men to be so capable when razing villages and capturing hostages.”

“I – oh, I don’t have the time for this.” And he glances back, eyebrows drawn together like he’s getting a migraine. Poe’s more preoccupied by the fact that the stupid little command cap hides the red hair he’s not seen in person in years. “I’ve made a terrible mistake,” the general mutters, as if reading his thoughts; Poe does the innocent blink again, much as he knows it won’t work.

“What mistake?”

“ _This_!” It’s something of a small victory to see him actually press three fingers to one temple. “Pfassking hell, I remember you being reckless, but not an outright _idiot_.”

He kind of wishes the other man hadn’t said that. The heat of inappropriate memory flushes through him, heart to heart to groin, and he fights to remind himself that this man is General Armitage Hux, co-commander of this rumoured – _real_ – flagship of the First Order. He is rarely out of the company of Kylo Ren, or so the stories go; while Kylo Ren is seen throughout the galaxy, General Hux holds his base. These are the briefs Poe has been given as Black Leader, wing commander of Black Squadron. He’s seen the general in holos, both those of Republic intelligence and of Order propaganda. He should just be a ghost, someone known only through secondhand information.

But Poe has seen him naked. Has _known_ him naked. He’d recognised him, of course, when Hux had first started showing up in intelligence reports when he’d still been just a captain. Poe had wondered if Hux would recognise him in turn. Having his answer now is less satisfying than he would have hoped for.

“I guess I should say sorry for telling you Army’s a stupid name,” he says, almost cheerful. “But you know what? Armitage really _is_ a stupid name.”

The scowl this receives is frankly magnificent. “I should let him have you,” Hux hisses, furious; in turn Poe’s only got one response to that.

“So why don’t you?”

Those lips, from so long ago but still somehow familiar, purse tight. Then he just shakes his head.

“You need to go.”

He’s actually not trying to be a pain in the ass when he asks, “Go where?”

“Away from here!” While Hux isn’t entirely yelling, he’s mastered the intense facial expressions of someone who is without actually doing so. “I’m helping you escape, you idiot!”

Someone could have told him at that precise moment that Darth Vader had returned from the dead and was currently babysitting an entire orphanage filled with Republic children, and Poe would have found that more realistic than this. “Uh…why?”

“Does that matter?”

“Yeah.” He says this slowly, lets his voice gather strength and volume. “Yeah, I think it does.”

For a moment, Hux glances away, clearly irritated; he’s pulled his lower lip in beneath the line of his upper teeth, chews it in deep thought. Letting out a huff of breath, he turns back, expression unyielding. “It really doesn’t.”

This close, Poe can see that he hasn’t changed that much since their last meeting. He’s older, of course – two years more than Poe, or so he’d discovered – and his uniform is crisper, tailored perfectly to his form. It makes his shoulders look so much broader than Poe remembers them to be, beneath his own hands.

It’s a mistake, to move closer. Poe knows plenty about this man that he’d never found out in some anonymous hotel room. But that one night seems very close when they are but a moment apart, their eyes locked together.

“So, you never forgot me then, Red?” Much as it’s an idiot move, he can’t resist snaking his hand forward, though he doesn’t quite rest it on one narrow hip. Hux doesn’t even look down, intense gaze fixed on Poe alone.

“Don’t flatter yourself too much, Pilot,” and it’s breath more than actual speech; Poe finds himself drawn closer as if by tractor beam, hand brushing against the stiff woven fabric of his gaberwool coat.

“You’re saving me, and you won’t even tell me why.” Tilting his chin up, he asks in hushed tones, “How could I not be flattered?”

It’s a stupid idea. But suddenly Poe wants very much to kiss him, and to kiss him _hard_. It will be something to take away with him, he tells himself, even as he carefully dips his hand into one unguarded pocket. Just a little souvenir, and this one only for himself. Not many Resistance pilots can say they’ve _literally_ fucked with a First Order general.

And the voice behind them rises in shock, bewildered in its panic.

“Oh.”

They both turn almost as one unit. A Stormtrooper stands at the end of the passageway, without mask and entirely alarmed. Poe can’t help but note he’s rather handsome, dark-skinned and wide-eyed.

“Oh, _shit_ ,” he says, again, and Hux’s voice snaps out between them like he’d pulled his sidearm and fired it right between his eyes.

“What are you doing here?”

He flinches back, though he doesn’t actually run. “I – I should go.”

“This is insanity.” And Hux actually _is_ reaching for his blaster. In turn Poe snatches forward, closes one hand over Hux’s own. It earns him an incredulous look, though he doesn’t shake him off.

“Just what do you think you’re doing?”

Appalled, Poe looks between general and ‘trooper, then ‘trooper and general. “You can’t just _shoot_ him! He’s one of your men!”

“Well, it’s quicker than reconditioning.” This time he does try to yank the blaster back, lips twisted as Poe just holds all the tighter. “I don’t have the time for this!”

“No!” Though he’s looking over to the Stormtrooper now, voice turned easy and welcoming, despite the fact the poor guy’s still on the wrong end of an officer’s blaster. “Hey, buddy. What’s your name?”

“I – uh.” He straightens a bit, then; the number rolls off his tongue like water. “FN-2187.”

“Really?” Poe looks to Hux. “ _Really_?”

His smile could have frozen the very heart of the largest star. “I’m going to shoot him now.”

“ _No_.” He’s actually got the blaster to himself, for now, though he doubts that helps him at all; from what he’s heard, the First Order security-locks their firearms to their owners. “And I’m not calling you by some number. Geez, Red, could you be a little more creative?”

“What does it matter what you call him?”

“He’s coming with us.” Not that even Poe had known as much until he’d said it just that moment. “And then you’re going to send him to reconditioning.” That, however, is an off the cuff spoken thought that turns his stomach like an ill-advised barrel roll. “…fuck, that sounds godawful.”

“It _is_ godawful.”

Hux snorts. “Be quiet, ‘trooper,” he snaps, even as he looks only to Poe himself. “Dameron. You’re _insane_.”

Even given the circumstances, Poe can’t deny power of it – cannot deny the shiver zig-zagging down his spine when he hears his own name, spoken by those lips for the first time. “Well, _Hugs_. You started this.” The absolute affront on the general’s face would have made him laugh, had the situation been less on the mortal peril side of matters. “So how am I getting out of here, anyway?” Sudden hope hits him like unexpected embrace. “Hey, can I fly a TIE Fighter?”

The look Hux gives him then reminds him of the way Organa flicks her eyes over him when he comes back from some mission missing half his flightsuit. “I don’t know. _Can_ you fly a TIE Fighter?”

“Well, I’m probably not exactly _rated_. Not to _your_ no doubt exacting standards. But I’m sure—”

“You’re not flying a TIE Fighter,” he says, forbidding and final. Poe pauses, shrugs, and then grins far wider than he ever thought he would aboard a First Order ship.

“Fine.” And he jerks a thumb back to their company. “I’m still calling him Finn, though.”

“What?” Then, in answer to his own question, “I cannot wait to be rid of you.”

“Says the guy who picked me up in the first place.”

Something spasms across his face, sudden and fleeting; though Poe can’t exactly identify it, he’s reminded of dark eyes across the bar, of drinks shared and fingers brushing between empty glasses.

“I’m sure that was your idea,” Hux says, very quiet. And Poe snorts, rolls his eyes to the ceiling.

“What, this? Like, no way was this—” Those eyes have turned very dark. And Poe swallows hard, tastes the memory of good alcohol and the clever tongue behind it. “Oh. Right. I see what you mean.” Shifting uncomfortably on his feet does nothing to help. “I still think you started it.”

Hux doesn’t care. His eyes are pale again as he tilts his chin high, looks down that long nose at him. “I’m putting you in an evac shuttle, set for Jakku. What you do after that is your problem.”

The thought of it makes his heart jump; he hadn’t realised how resigned to this fate he was until this maniac offered him a lifeboat out. “What, and no-one’s gonna notice me just zipping out into space?”

“This is a star destroyer, Dameron,” he says, withering as the top student in a class not even attempting to tutor the class clown. “And we have assigned tasks. We don’t all stand around looking out the viewports just to see what space trash happens to be floating past.”

He blinks innocently, and can’t resist. “What, you’re telling me you don’t have radar?”

“I’ll put you under it,” he snaps, though the flare in his eyes says there are other things he’d prefer Poe be under. “And then I’ll pray to gods I don’t even believe in that we’ll never see each other again.”

He grins wider. “Love you too, buddy.”

Again, that strange spasm, snapping across his features. Then it’s smoothed back to habitual disdain, pale and cold. “Get in the elevator.” He glances back, scowl deepening. “You too, ‘trooper. And put that helmet back on.”

The elevator’s not large, and it’s an uncomfortable fit for the three of them: Poe between the ‘trooper and the general. That’s likely for the best, though he asks all the same, “…you’re not really going to shoot him when I’m gone, are you?”

Hux’s eyes remain fixed on the control panel dead ahead. “That’s none of your business.”

“Yeah, no, it kind of is. I’ve seen his face now and everything.”

Sudden impatience has him taking a sharp breath in through his nose, though Hux doesn’t look to either of them when he speaks. “There _is_ reconditioning.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard about that. And not just from you.” Glancing sideways grants him no knowledge of the expression on the ‘trooper’s face, given he’s listened to Hux and put the unwieldy helmet back on his head. Still he looks into the black void of the visor, and feels his heart curl like a kicked puppy. “Like, I’m sure it’s better than being shot, but I don’t know how cool I am with it.”

“That doesn’t matter in the slightest. I will do what is necessary.”

After that, Poe watches him for what feels like a small eternity, skin creeping and pulling away from the chilled muscle and blood beneath. How close they’d been to a kiss but moments ago – and he remembers far too well how it had felt to know this man breathing beneath him, bare and boneless. They are one and the same, and yet Poe scarcely recognises him in this brittle creature, perfectly buttoned up in his pristine black uniform.

“I’d say you’re being a prime asshole,” he says, and it’s somewhere between sarcasm and resignation, “but then again, I definitely prefer you over Kylo Ren.”

“It really doesn’t matter, being that if you’re sensible you’ll never see either of us ever again.”

Hux hasn’t looked at him once this entire conversation. Poe supposes that’s why he says, like a drunkard spoiling for a cantina bloodbath, “Did you know I’m the Resistance’s best pilot?”

“I know that’s what they _say_ you are.”

They’re so close it’s almost pointless to do so, but still Poe pushes forward, resting his weight against Hux’s stiffened right arm. The man’s just a fraction too tall to do it the way he’d prefer, but Poe still manages to drop one last hot whisper near his ear.

“Trust me, Red, I know _exactly_ what I am.”

Now Hux glares straight at him, cold as winterfire. “So do I,” he says, clipped and perfect; as if on cue, the elevator doors hiss open. “FN-2187, escort him.”

And of course the general’s already swept ahead, coat bannering behind him. But the hand on his arm is slow, nowhere near the manacle grip Poe had experienced from the others.

“Sorry,” Finn says, distorted through his vocoder; Poe shrugs a little, begins to walk before the ‘trooper even thinks to do so himself.

“Hey, no worries.” And he leans closer, ignoring the twinge in his shoulder. “Your boss kinda sucks, though.”

“Shut it, Dameron,” comes the voice from ahead; as it turns out, Hux has not gone far at all. They’re in another narrow corridor, this one dimly lit with anonymous airlock doors every few metres; Hux indicates the one in front of him even as it yawns slowly open. “This is you.”

Glancing in, Poe finds the backend of what looks to be a specialised escape pod, looking fit to take perhaps half a dozen people. Specifically officers, if the blandly neat surroundings tell him anything about who it had been designed for. “…you sure you won’t give me that TIE Fighter?” he asks, still not sticking much more than his head inside. “I promise I won’t scratch her up. I’m good to my ships. Very careful. Very gentle.” He turns back, glad to see Hux is too close even as he kicks himself for the indulgence. “You know what I mean.”

And Hux makes it all the worse, pursing his lips as he turns his head, but not backing away. “Just get in there.”

“Yeah, well.” He straightens, turns back. “I’m gonna take this ‘trooper with me, okay?”

The helmeted head turns to him in what he supposes must be shock. It’s still nowhere near as blatant as the general’s displeasure, exuding from every pore like solar flares from a star nearly reached supernova.

“ _No_.”

“But I’m sure he wants to,” he says, perfectly wheedling; but when he looks to the ‘trooper, it’s nothing if not deadly serious. “You do, right?”

“I…” To his credit, the ‘trooper doesn’t look to Hux once. “Yes.” And it must be difficult, seeing as said general is glaring daggers into his head. “…please.”

“Well, that’s decided, then. Thanks, Red.” What follows is the urge to lean forward, to push the cap off, to bury his fingers in that crimson hair. _Armie_ , that’s what he had actually said that night in the hotel. _My name is Armie_.

And here Armitage Hux stands, again, very still. Then, his eyes roll, and he steps back. “Fine. Whatever. You have to go now, before Ren starts wondering where the hell you are.”

The stab of concern comes sudden, and very sharp. “What are you going to tell him?” He doesn’t realise how tight his fists are clenched until the nails break skin. “What’s he going to do to _you_?”

A snort, and Hux takes another step back. “ _He_ will do nothing to me. I am too valuable to the Order for him to simply dispose of. Not that he will know I had anything to do with this matter anyway. Believe you me, there won’t be a trace of what happened here.” And he glances over at the ‘trooper, withdrawing his datapad from some other hidden pocket in the greatcoat he wears. “In a way, FN-2187’s presence was lucky. I can say he did this. He’s been known in the past to be somewhat…difficult.”

“Well, then, that’s something we have in common,” he says, with one raised eyebrow. It’s hard not to be disappointed when Hux barely looks up from his tapping.

“Indeed.” Then he nods his head, stows the thing away. “Well. Goodbye then, Dameron.”

Poe wishes he hadn’t said that. “I am actually Black Leader now,” he says, just to be as much of a dick as the man before him. “Just so you know.” And then, because enough is never enough: “Armie.”

He says nothing, though the press of his lips surely masks something very unpleasant. But the airlock door hisses closed, begins its seal sequence as the ship itself begins preparations to disengage. Poe is imagining a small line of the similar ships, hooked up to umbilical corridors stretching across unseen evac hangars, when the click of a helmet is followed by a panicked, “Oh, _shit_!”

“What?”

“The General.” Finn has turned very pale, looking at his cocked wrist as if he’s pointing a loaded blaster at his own head. “I can’t believe – well, no, I _do_ believe he did it, I just…”

“You just what?” He says it too sharp, too demanding. “What did he do?”

A sick, slow smile spreads across Finn’s face. “He’s set my bio systems to self-terminate.” When he looks down, the dismayed wonder in his words curdles in Poe’s stomach like old milk. “…I’m going to die.”

He stands very still. But only for a moment. “Aw, _hell_ , no.” The pod has not yet detached, and though Poe realises he’s probably locked out of the system, his hand moves, digs into the pocket of his jacket. There, his fingers close around the thing he’d palmed from Hux’s greatcoat.

“What’s that?”

He’s grim as he moves forward to the truncated cockpit, which he suspects does little more than steer. “Not entirely sure. I just took it because I could.” Pressing the cylinder into a likely slot, he palms the panel. “Hopefully it’ll give me access, either way.”

A bleep, and all systems light up; Poe hits the abort button so hard he suspects he’s damaged the screen. The shudder, a hiss – and then the door opens, Hux storming through like an enraged happabore ready to tear down an entire shantytown.

“What do you think you’re _doing_ —”

The pod lurches, detaching, with all of them thrown to the floor. A moment of dizzying speed through a lightless tube, and then they launch away from the hulking destroyer behind them. When Poe risks a look out, his stomach clenches at the sudden horror of it. The destroyer is so much larger than he’d ever expected.

But he shouldn’t have taken even that moment. Hux already lunges for the screens, murder in his eyes. In turn, Poe vaults himself upward, graceless greater mass; he hits Hux in the side, takes him down hard. But even with this advantage over him, Hux does not take it only lying down. Poe’s barely managed to get Hux underneath him when he finds a knife pressed to his throat, blue eyes blazing upwards.

And then there’s the click of a loaded blaster.

“It’s not on stun.” Finn’s voice, wavering at first, hardens quick. “ _Sir_.”

Hux doesn’t look to him, but the long slow breath expelled through his nostrils is response enough. His gaze remains locked on Poe, as does his blade. He’s even almost conversational when he says, “I can wait this out. You’ll die anyway.”

“No, he won’t.” Poe briefly wets his lips. “Reverse it.”

“And if I won’t?”

“ _Red_.” For a moment, he is nothing if not exhausted. But an hour ago, he’d held perfect victory in his hands. Poe almost can’t understand how his luck turned so damn quick. And he tries, again. “What good is it going to do, to kill him now?”

A sneer would have been enough, but Hux augments it anyway. “It’s not about _good_ , Dameron. It’s about what’s _right_.”

“…I’m starting to understand that you and I are very different people.” He tightens his knees around Hux’s middle. “Put the knife away, at least.”

He’s never quite sure why, but Hux does draw his hand back, just a little. It’s fortunate he does as the shuttle is rocked with a sudden shudder, like it’s been grabbed by a giant hand and then regretfully let go. Then Hux is scrambling up, looking at the screens, eyes wild and mouth pulled back from his teeth. To Poe, it’s like seeing a predator roused by blood and gore: his command cap is gone, his hair brilliant in the blue gleam.

And in a second, Poe’s at his side. “What is it?”

“Your stupid little stunt’s drawn the attention of the bridge,” he snaps, fingers flying. “We’re just out of tractor reach, but not out of short range.” The look he gives him could etch transparisteel. Probably spelling out something about idiots and tempting fate. “You wanted a TIE Fighter, yes? Well, lucky you. Now they’re incoming.”

Poe frowns. “So tell them to pull back.”

“And let them know I’m _here_?”

“…you can’t outrun TIE Fighters in this little thing.” Hux just stares at him, and his mouth drops. He’s on the verge of trying to point out basically reality when Hux blinks, then snorts one last time.

“I thought you said you were the best pilot in the Resistance.”

The controls are calling him. “Surely it would just be easier to call them off.”

“Get us closer to Jakku.” Hitting another button, Hux brings up a trajectory to the sand world below, data scrolling across the screen at a frantic pace. “I’ll eject a life support pod with you inside. FN-2187 and I will return to our posts.”

He whips his head around. “No. He’s coming with me.”

“It’s okay.” Finn’s words are quiet. “He’s reversed it.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Dameron.” Hux’s eyes are even bluer than the clearest Yavinian sky. “Do you want to go home or not?”

And he’s swearing, sitting, eyes on the scope. They then flick up to the orb of the desert world coming up fast. “You know, Red, Jakku’s not exactly my first choice for a holiday destination.”

“And you weren’t even there for the war,” Hux mutters. Poe’s not entirely sure he was supposed to hear that, but answers all the same.

“What, and you were?”

“Just do it!” A sudden shake rattles the entire ship, far harder than the first. An actual strike, if the wailing shields are anything to go by. Hux hisses, fist clenched on the console panel. “And congratulations, you’re actually a terrible pilot.”

“Yeah, well, you should have given me the TIE Fighter.” Scowling when one leather sleeve makes it harder to reach a distant control, Poe fights his way out of his jacket. Without looking, he tosses it back in Finn’s direction, hears the _flumph_ of a good catch. “Keep it,” he says, and Finn’s wonder clenches a cold fist around his heart.

“…what, _really_?”

“Suits you better than all that white plasteel.” And he does look to Hux now, eyebrow arched. “What were you even thinking there, Red? That armour was out of fashion thirty years ago when the Empire last wore it.”

“Just concentrate on what you’re doing.”

It’s a hard thing to do, considering Hux is right beside him, eyes narrowed, face sallow in the bright light of the screens. He’s considering telling him to go sit the fuck down when Hux starts pressing through a series of screens whose contents look frankly alarming.

“What are you do— _oh_.”

He hasn’t the faintest idea what Hux has actually done, but the dinky little engine of the evac pod – not much more than a booster burner – has suddenly got a _lot_ more power. Manoeuvrability isn’t exactly great, but this thing hadn’t exactly been built for acrobatics.

“Well, that was helpful,” he says, and Hux sniffs the way the actors do, when they’re portraying old Imperials in the holomovies about the civil war.

“Some of us were actually trained to do our jobs,” he says, then scowls deeper. “And let’s just pray Ren doesn’t decide to come join the fun.”

“…you have a weird idea of fun, Red.”

“No stranger than yours, I suspect.”

Much as he’d enjoy some more banter with Hux’s sharp tongue, he does have work to do. The ridiculous speed and slight time advantage means even the TIE Fighters will have trouble catching up to them, but that doesn’t mean they’re in the clear. He also suspects they’ll be out of support range of the destroyer itself soon enough, but he has to wonder how much control he actually has of what feels more and more like a blaster bolt shot out of a souped up cannon. Not to mention he has no idea what will happen once they breach atmosphere.

“So Kylo Ren flies?” he asks, more as a distraction than actual curiosity; he knows it probably doesn’t matter. Still, Hux deigns to answer.

“Not often.” It’s difficult to tell if he’s amused or annoyed when he adds, “For you, he might make an exception.”

A huff of breath catches awkward in his tight chest. “I wish BB-8 were here.”

It’s Finn who actually asks. “…BB-8?”

“My droid. Little orange and white model, one of a kind.” That tightness relents, just a little; he can’t help but smile when he thinks of them. “I’d say they’re my good luck charm, but they’re worth a lot more than only that.”

“…orange and white?”

Poe can’t help sneaking a side glance at Hux, who he supposes really does have that exact same colouring. “Round little thing. Shaped like a friend, basically.” But he’s looking entirely at Finn alone when he says, low and firm, “I need to get him back home. For the good of not only the Resistance – but the entire galaxy.”

“Dameron, stop pontificating, and pay attention to what you’re doing!”

Doing so means he’s just in time to avoid a stray cannon shot, whining past the ship; a lucky outlier from the ventral cannons of the distant destroyer. “Whoa, whoa, no need to bust a gasket, Red,” he snaps, and Hux actually looks of the verge of kicking the console with those shiny boots. They’re form-fitted and perfect, and carry with them the memory of taut long calves around his waist, of pale white thighs open and impatient.

But the man himself is now looking at the proximity array, lips very thin, nothing of that night in his tension now. Poe pushes it aside himself as he takes in the grim news Hux displays there. As much as Poe enjoys a good dogfight, he understands they’re about to be in a world of hurt. That cluster of incoming TIE Fighters is way too close, and Jakku just somewhat too far.

But when Hux speaks then it’s quick, clipped, utterly convinced of his chosen course of action. “We’re close enough.” Already he’s turning, moving towards the rear of the little craft. “Come get in a pod.”

He’s still seated at the controls, which have now begun to light up in those terrible cheerful sequences of light which indicate oncoming catastrophe. “But what about you? And Finn?”

“Dameron.” Even in the bright emergency light, even with their pale storm-summer colour, his eyes have turned very dark. “ _Now_.”

But first he must spare a glance to Finn. The terror he sees there is well on its way to resignation, and that is something Poe will not allow. Setting his jaw, Poe nods forward, notes the way Finn’s hands tighten a moment on his own jacket.

Only when he nods back does Poe turn at last, scrambling to the back where Hux has popped a pod; it’s lying open before him, small and tight like the confines of a coffin. The thought’s uncomfortable, and not just because on Yavin 4 they never bury their dead. But that’s not the reason why Poe stops, pushes Finn forward in his place. Whatever else they’d trained into the ‘troopers, Poe’s seeing some admirable self-preservation skills on display here; Finn’s in the tube and smashing his palm down on the release before Hux can make any sort of movement otherwise.

But the one he soon does is frankly magnificent. Poe had no idea he could move so quick, and so strong. Dragged to the tips of his toes, his whole weight almost entirely off the ground, he’s now of a height with the furious general. It makes it even easier to stare directly into the rage in his eyes. “You _idiot_!” Hux screams in his face, fists tightening further in the collar twisted about his neck. “Why would you _do_ that?”

It’s a little tricky to breathe. It had still been entirely worth it. “Because it was right,” he rasps. It’s obviously too much for Hux, who immediately drops him to his feet. Stumbling just a little, Poe rakes his hand back through his hair, finds it damp with sweat. “Is that the only pod you’ve got?”

He whirls back, greatcoat flaring about him like a dancer’s skirt. “Of course not!” For a moment, his anger burns so bright and so potent Poe thinks it may blow them both all to pieces right here and now. And yet he closes his eyes, breathes deep, and some of the charge drains out of the air between them.

“Oh, just get in this one,” he snaps, one gloved hand smacking on the panel to open the next. Even as Poe takes a step closer, he adds, “Of course, the thing you have to remember is that I didn’t even have the chance to programme the first one right. For all you know he’s going to end up dead in the middle of a desert.”

The grin Poe gives him then is crooked. One doesn’t become Black Leader without learning how to count lives. “I gave him a chance,” he says, and because he’s never been able to help it, “Just like you’re giving me.”

The shuttle gives another shudder, proximity alarm beginning a high-pitched wail. “And no doubt I’ll regret it for the rest of my life,” he says, perfectly conversational. It gives Poe pause even as he begins to climb in.

“So why are you doing it?” he asks, settling back into what every safety manual cheerfully dubs “the corpse position.” For his own part, Hux gives no answer, continues making whatever adjustments he deems necessary. The bright light limns him in crimson and silver, as if he’s not really here at all. Just a projection. Perhaps only a memory.

When he glances down, fingers on the external release key, Poe curls his lips upward. “What, no goodbye kiss?”

“Oh, for…” Hux leans forward anyway. Poe’s not sure which of them the movement surprises more. But it doesn’t particularly matter in the end, given the entire shuttle is rocked violently by a blast hitting it somewhere near the nose. For a moment there’s complete, terrifying silence. Then the alarms resume, more numerous and louder than ever before, and Hux is pitching forward, both hands braced against the side of Poe’s pod, legs clearly knocked out from beneath him.

“They’re almost here!” he snaps scrabbling, trying to get up. When he’s halfway to victory, it’s almost too easy to snake out an arm around his waist, pulling him off balance, fitting that slim weight over his own body. He already knows from Finn where the internal release is.

There’s a sensation of sudden pressure, and then: _speed_ , heavy and frantic even as he himself lies utterly still. And Hux is above him and they’re pressed together, soaring through space faster than even the speeds Poe knows of ion engines, dizzying and delirious.

In the end Poe has no idea how long it really takes. Given the First Order hadn’t thought to install windows on these pods, he can’t see a damn thing in the dark. But given their speed and their questionable destination, perhaps the Order engineers had been on to something there.

If his eyes have no use here, his ears have too much; the sound is overwhelming, terrifying; he can barely hear his own thoughts over the roar of their passage. He also cannot hear anything of Hux himself. Only the warm exhalation of Hux’s breath upon his own cheek reassures him that the general is still alive. Though Poe does wonder how long he himself might be, if they both live through this landing.

When they stop, it comes so sudden that Poe figures that this is it, that they have died after all. The hiss of the hermetic seal release would make him jump, if there had been the room; as it is when breathable atmosphere and bright light stream into the pod, all he can do is stare.

Hux is already gone, pulling himself free; when Poe slowly sits up, drawing air deep into spasming lungs, he immediately spits, “Are you _insane_?”

It’s a pointless question, given the view and the familiar dirt-metal taste of the air, but he asks it anyway. “Are we on Jakku?”

“Are we…” For one hot second, Poe thinks that Hux will actually punch him in the face. But for whatever reason, the man restrains himself, goes for words instead. It gives him the sneaking suspicion that the general is only so good at it because he’s had to do it for his entire life already.

“Why did you _do_ that?” he demands, and Poe gives Hux his most incredulous look of the day. Which is no small victory, really.

“The ship was going to blow up.” When Hux only stares at him, wordless in his disbelieving fury, Poe actually tries again. “Come on, Red, I saved your life! You _could_ say thank you.”

His shout bursts out of him with the intensity and weight of a monsoon deluge. “I’m a _general_ , you idiot! I have override codes!”

At that Poe snorts, waves one arm over the undulating gold and brown of their endless surroundings. “Well, that’s great,” he says. “Can you override the desert?”

Unfortunately – or perhaps fortunately – Hux doesn’t rise to the bait, choosing instead to actually take in the environment in which they stand. The string of curses he then rattles off with such force and passion makes Poe almost which he could understand the language in which he’d spoken them.

Only when he’s been silent again for a full minute does Poe venture to speak again. “Didn’t you programme it to land us in a populated area?”

“Of course I did!” Hux whirls around, eyes very bright, sweat already beading on the white expanse of his skin. “But with the weight of both of us, the calculations would have been thrown out!” Taking two steps forward, he jabs him in the chest with one finger. _Hard._ “This is your fault!”

Poe takes a step back. “Actually, I think it’s more yours than mine. None of this was my idea.”

Of course he’s expecting more of a fight. Instead Hux drops right there to the ground, butt on the sand and knees up, face like thunder and voice like cracked lightning.

“… _shit_.”

There’s not a lot more to say to that. Poe still gives it a go. “Can…you call for pick up?” The withering look this earns him is somewhat unfair, Poe thinks, as he trudges on. “Although it would be good if you could, you know. Drop me off on the way. If you’re still cool with that.”

People have always tended to tell Poe that he’s got a flair for the dramatic. Being the son of Shara Bey and Kes Dameron would have that effect on a person, and that’s not even considering the fact he’s more or less the godson of Luke Skywalker. But Armitage Hux is giving him a run for his money right now, staring up at the baking blue sky with an expression that says if he could, he’d fight it bare-knuckled and bleeding. The pale skin is already flushed, too. Poe would think it was far too soon for even his pasty ass to begin burning, but Jakku has ever been hot and harsh. Not to mention there’s nothing around them but rolling dunes, save for—

“—is that a _star destroyer_?”

“We’re on Jakku.” Disdain rolls off him like ionising radiation. “What did you expect, if not a graveyard?”

Still shielding his eyes, Poe keeps them fixed on the distance even as silence falls again. There’s something unsettling about the great grey wreck on the horizon. It’s long since dead, along with all those who had been aboard it. Somehow it still prickles over his skin, like a thousand eyes are upon them both.

“Well, aren’t you going to call for help?”

“Idiot.” Poe’s turning around to kick some san in his face when Hux waves him back with deepening irritation. “I deactivated all systems save for life when I programmed the pod. I didn’t want you taking it back to your Resistance friends.” He finally stops staring off into the distance like some B-holomovie hero and grimaces at the pod nearby. “It’ll self-destruct in ten minutes anyway.”

“Oh. Great.” He swallows back something far nastier, then grimaces to feel the dry grit already beginning to coat his throat. “Nice to see you think of everything.”

“Yes, well.” Waving his arm in the pod’s direction again, he notes with what is surely artificial nonchalance, “There’s rations, in the locker. Better get them, I suppose.”

“Do I look like your maid?”

“No.” He’s gone back to his staring. “Droids tend to have a little less hair than you. And a lot less lip.”

Then he falls again to that moody silence that Poe would not have expected from a First Order general. But then, Hux is very young. And Poe had known him when he’d been even younger, still. It seems he hasn’t lost his knack for bossing other people around, though Poe still does as asked. When he’s done, he gives the thing a dubious look.

“Should we…get out of range?”

“It’s not that interesting a detonation.” With that said, Hux does stand. Without so much as a glance back to Poe, he begins to walk down the slope of the crest the pod had skipped along; it’s awkward, ungainly, and so very unlike the smooth glide Poe remembers from ten years ago. Shouldering the rations pack, he takes large, bounding steps, makes it down far quicker than Hux had. But the base, the distant destroyer seems only a little larger on the horizon.

“It could serve as shelter,” Hux says, very short. Poe raises first an eyebrow, and then both shoulders in a non-committal shrug.

“Yeah, well.”

As it seems neither of them are about to move to this goal, Poe soon dumps the pack back on the sand. Though his thirst is already growing, he doesn’t let himself think of what is inside. He learned long ago that what the eyes see can be deeply deceptive; the destroyer may look close now, but it tells him nothing of the journey they must take to arrive there.

“Why did you try to save me?” Hux asks, very sudden. And while his voice holds that even, infuriating Imperial accent, Poe fancies there’s something on edge, beneath it. Though he could be imagining it. His mother always said he always had a habit of leaving his brain behind in space, even long after he’d landed again on solid ground.

“I could ask you the same thing,” he says, instead. And for a moment it seems as though Hux will actually accept that answer. Then he shakes his head, hands tightening where they rest in parade formation at the small of his back.

“I’ve seen what Kylo Ren does to the minds of those who hold information he wants. I wasn’t particularly inclined to see it happen to you.”

It isn’t that Poe _particularly_ thinks of Hux as a liar. Not even after having watched all of the internal First Order propaganda that the Resistance has managed to acquire. Still, such simple honesty leaves him blindsided. “But…” He pauses, struggles, tries again. “…this is information the First Order wants. Information _you_ want.”

A snort, and Hux still doesn’t look away from the path forward. “This is information _Kylo Ren_ wants. Do you really think _I_ give a flying fuck about Luke Skywalker?”

Poe’s voice, his _belief_ – both are a lot smaller than they should be when he says, quiet, “He could destroy you all.”

“Oh, _could_ he.” Hux turns then, and though Poe would expect smirks and snark, he simply looks tired and worn. “Tell me, then: why do you need a map to find him? He’s either dead or he just doesn’t care.” One corner of his mouth turns slightly upward, still not quite the sneer Poe would have anticipated. “Unless you think the saviour of the galaxy got lost on his way to retirement, and just needs someone to come pick him up and put him back on the right path.”

Poe looks away, chest tight. “It’s not like that.”

“Maybe it is. Maybe it isn’t. Either way, it’s nothing to do with me.” There’s a flurry of movement, and when Poe glances over, he sees Hux has shed his greatcoat, though he then pulls it up over his head like a cowl. “Come on, then.”

Poe frowns. “Have you ever been to Jakku before?”

“Of course I’ve been to Jakku.” This irritation comes quick, and deeply biting. “Weren’t you _listening_?”

Putting his foot straight into sensitive spots – and then kicking straight through them – has also been one of his strengths since childhood. “No, I mean…recently.”

“No.”

“…then how do you know where we’re going?”

Hux doesn’t look back. “If you want to stay out here and roast like a pig on a spit, be my guest.”

And Poe watches him go, the ration pack still at his feet. “You wouldn’t let me,” he calls to the growing distance between them. “You’ve put too much work into me already.”

His voice floats back on the thick desert air. “More like I just need someone to carry the bag.”

“And if I won’t?”

“Then we both starve.”

Looking down, he gives the thing a brief nudge with one foot. “Maybe I’ll carry enough for me, and let _you_ starve.”

“You wouldn’t.”

Poe looks up. Hux hasn’t missed a beat. “Damn you,” he mutters, and reaches for the straps. In the distance, Hux’s voice still carries clear and loud.

“Are you coming?”

He is. Briefly he thinks he enjoyed his last _coming_ with Hux a lot more than this one, but times do change. Still, when he glances up to the hulk of the dead destroyer, he has the uncomfortable sensation that they will always circle right around back to the beginning, in the end.


End file.
